Page 36 of Good as Gold
Especially me.
He took jobs and lost jobs and quit jobs at an age when all our friends seemed to be finding their footing in life.
When I questioned his logic, he accused me of looking down on him. And the truth is that I did. I wanted him to buck up and stick to a plan. I wanted to start a family. And he blamed me for pressuring him. He said I wasn’t supportive.
Then, last fall, my mother and I took our annual shopping weekend in New York City, and she confessed to me that she was planning to leave my dad.
I was stunned. The timing seemed so strange. My father has never been more successful. He’s on top of the world.
But my mother wasn’t happy. Cognitively I knew this. They were always arguing. But I didn’t imagine—after forty years—that she’d actually leave him. The audacity stunned me. I didn’t think leaving a marriage was something you could do.
I’m not a quitter. It’s just how I’m built.
But then—in the dressing room at Nordstrom’s—she’d said something I couldn’t forget. “Don’t keep making a mistake, Leila, simply because you’ve invested a lot of time making it.”
For a few weeks the idea had buzzed around me like a mosquito. I just couldn’t shake it. Then Rory did something truly disrespectful to me. It hadn’t been the first time. I’d been putting up with his bullshit for years.
And I just snapped. “Keep it up,” I’d shrieked at him. “And we’ll end up divorced.”
I’d never uttered the D-word before. I’d shocked the both of us, but once the words had come crashing out of my mouth, I knew I’d changed everything.
I’d also known it was time.
He’d made the decision easier by totally flipping out and saying a whole lot of ugly things.
Now here I sit on a barstool, my drink reduced to ice cubes. My life badly in need of a do-over.
“Leila,” Skye says gently. “Are you all right?”
“Yes!” It comes out a little slurred. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a better person than he is, and Rory can’t take it,” she says. “Everyone knows.”
“I married him,” I point out, articulating carefully. “That’s on me.”
“And then you divorced him.” She pushes her barstool back and hops down. “Do you want us to walk you home?”
I blink. “Home is right upstairs. I’m good.”
Benito gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Be well. And don’t give that ass another thought.”
“I won’t,” I lie.
The two lovebirds leave the bar. The place is really emptying out. Zara is counting the register and Matteo is cleaning up. He passes me a glass of ice water that I didn’t ask for.
“Thanks. Appreciate it.” I must look sloppy drunk.
My pride is so wounded at this point that it just doesn’t matter. I sip my water slowly and watch the muscles in Matteo’s arms flex as he scrubs out a sink.
Eventually, they begin to shut off the lights. Matteo comes around the bar and holds out his arm to me. “Come on, then. White-glove service upstairs.”
“You don’t have to walk me upstairs,” I insist. But then I kind of miss the floor when I try to slide off the stool, and Matteo has to catch me.
And,ohhhh. As his arms close around me, I breathe in his scent. Like lime juice and heat. “That’s just not fair. Who works a sweaty eight-hour shift and still smells so good?”
Zara laughs, and I realize I’d said that out loud. “Night, kids,” she says. “Oh—Matteo, here.” She offers him a thick envelope.
“Thanks.” He grabs it and shoves it in his pocket. “Okay, Leila. Let’s get you home.” He uses the same patient voice he’d used with the baby the other night. “Let’s put you to bed.”
